


cockroaches

by relationshipcrimes



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen, Merc!Wash AU, Offscreen Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 03:28:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15306453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/relationshipcrimes/pseuds/relationshipcrimes
Summary: Two hours after the prisoners have been recruited from Tartarus, they find Wash with his fists covered in Sharkface’s blood. What’s left of Sharkface dangles from the tops of the cell bars.(AU where Wash went to jail at the end of season 8 and winds up on the prison ship Tartarus, where he's later recruited by Felix and Locus to wage war on Chorus against the Reds and Blues.)





	cockroaches

**Author's Note:**

  * For [monierity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/monierity/gifts).



Two hours after the prisoners have been recruited from Tartarus, they find Wash with his fists covered in Sharkface’s blood.

What’s left of Sharkface dangles from the tops of the cell bars.

 

* * *

 

 

Of course, they have to put Wash back in a cell. There’s no airlock in this one, which only somewhat reassures Wash. He spends some time getting the blood off his hands, cleaning out his kevlar undersuit. He never made it as far as actually getting any armor. Sharkface, the idiot, apparently couldn’t wait to fulfill his grudge. He supposes that the higher-ranking pirates on this ship are going to go get those mercenaries to deal with him—Felix and Locus, if he’s remembering those names right—but until then, he sits and waits. It’s much more tolerable than the sitting and waiting he’s been doing for the last few years. He knows this wait will have an end.

The person who comes to see him is not, unfortunately, Felix and Locus.

The Counselor clears his throat. “Good morning, Davi—”

“No,” says Wash.

Price lowers his chin. “Agent Washingt—”

“Nope,” says Wash.

“Washington,” says Price.

Wash keeps his scowl to himself. It’s the right name, after all. Wash just doesn’t like the way Price says it. Doesn’t like the person saying it, for that matter.

“It appears that you’ve found yourself in trouble,” says Price.

“And it looks like you’ve found some new people to kiss up to,” Wash replies.

Price’s eyes narrow. He probably doesn’t remember Wash being _quite_ so aggressive, but Wash, for his part, remembers hours and hours of counseling, holding his tongue, clutching Epsilon’s secrets like they were his own. He’d never liked Price, even before that. It’s long overdue that Price knew it.

“How are you feeling, after Sharkface’s—”

“Don’t start that either,” Wash interrupts. “Sharkface was honest. I knew he was coming for me. I have zero feelings that you’re going to hear on the matter. Why are you even here, Price?”

Price’s eyes narrow further.

“Felix and Locus are displeased,” says Price. “I’ve come to warn you.”

No, Price has come to get something for the trouble of warning him. “Me being in a jail cell tipped me off,” says Wash. “But thanks for the warning, I guess.”

“Washington, your skills are invaluable in this situation,” says Price. “With Sharkface dead, not only are you possibly the best-trained man on this ship, but you’ve _personally_ been up against Agent Carolina, the greatest weapon the enemy has. Washington, you and I, with our combined knowledge and abilities, would be able to take Carolina down and ensure success for our mission against—”

“Mission,” Wash scoffs, and rolls his eyes.

He doesn’t look, but Price most definitely has his Disapproval Wrinkle. “That is what it’s called.”

“It’s not a mission,” Wash says. He stands up and crosses the cell, standing at the wall furthest away from Price. “It’s a gig. A deal. A promise. An exchange of survival. The mercenaries promised us freedom, we work for them.”

“A mission can be those things too—”

“A mission is a purpose, with a team, for something greater than yourself,” says Wash. “Not crawling around in the dirt like a cockroach. And for the record, Price? Literally nothing you say is going to make me want to work with you.”

“You would do anything to survive,” says Price.

“Exactly,” says Wash. “That’s why I’m not working with a vulture like you.”

Price’s lips thin. “I notice you’ve made several assu—”

“Price,” interrupts a voice, sing-song and light. “Price, Price, Price. Do me a favor, would you? Don’t pick brains when we don’t ask you to.”

Like an actor strutting onto a stage, Felix strolls in, helmet under his arm. A large shadow moves behind him so thoroughly without sound that it takes Wash a moment to realize it’s Locus. “Go on,” says Felix to Price, and waves his hand. “Shoo.”

“I was merely attempting to—”

“Don’t piss me off,” says Felix sweetly. “Sharkface’s intestines are stinking up the whole goddamn main floor, and I might decide to blame you for not telling me there was a fucking Freelancer on this ship with you.”

Price gives Wash a hard look. Wash doesn’t even move. “We will speak later,” says Price, and leaves at a brisk pace. Wash internally resolves that they won’t.

Felix plunks his helmet down on the floor. Puts his hands on his hips. Sizes Wash up. “So you’re the big, bad Freelancer who beat up our new, loud-mouthed cannon fodder,” says Felix.

“Ex-Freelancer,” says Wash. He steps into the light, takes a seat on the chair by the cell bars.

“Okay, sure, ex-Freelancer or whatever. Locus, how the fuck did we miss that there was a Freelancer on this goddamn ship?”

“You checked the prisoner roster,” says Locus.

“Yeah, but _you’re_ supposed to double-check it and then berate me for my mistakes while I don’t listen.”

Locus makes an irritated noise, some quiet growl that sounds like _“Hurry up.”_

“What a good idea.” Felix squats down in front of the bars, like Wash is a child who needs to be on the same eye level to understand basic human sentences. “Here’s the deal, Washy. We’ve got a problem. The problem is that half of Sharkface’s brains got shoved through the prison floor grate. We were gonna use him against Carolina,” Felix complains.

But for all his loud-mouthed whining, his eyes are keen, taking measure of Wash where he sits. Not to manipulate him, like Price—to see how Wash can be useful to Felix. The sort of honesty that Sharkface had, when Sharkface took the time to remind Wash every day (like Wash might have forgotten) that Sharkface was going to kill Wash the first chance he got. Wash meets Felix’s study without expression.

Let him look. Wash has always been his own greatest ally, and he knows exactly how useful he can be.

Felix points two fingers at Wash. “This is a problem _you_ caused,” says Felix. “We gave you prisoners a deal: work with us, get paid. Not cause a ruckus and kill our best fighter. I should shove you out the fucking airlock.”

“Believe me,” says Wash evenly. “I’m the last person who wants to cause a ruckus. I told him to stop.”

“Stop what, pulling your pigtails?”

“Trying to kill me,” says Wash.

Felix sits back on his haunches. “Ahhh,” he says. “His little grudge match against Freelancers—that applies to you too.”

“I told him I wasn’t going to die,” Wash replies. “I gave him fair warning.”

“You know what?” says Felix, sounding surprised. “That’s legit. I can get behind that. Survivors, right? You’re just doing what it takes.”

Wash’s face doesn’t move. “I guess so,” says Wash.

“I respect that,” says Felix, and smiles. “I’m still gonna shove you out the airlock, though.”

Wash’s first thought is: _I’d like to see you try._ The prison cell they’ve got him in doesn’t have an airlock. It’s a long way from this cell to the next cell that has one. Plenty of hell to raise.

Wash’s second thought is: _I don’t have the power here._ The two fully-armored mercenaries with the sponsorship, money, and resources to wage a war have the power. Wash is not a fucking idiot. Wash can swallow his pride. Wash knows how to make deals with the devil with the little talents he has.

Wash’s third thought is: _A man like Felix would have thrown me out already if he didn’t have a deal to make._

“And if you throw me out of the airlock,” Wash asks, “what are you going to do about Carolina?”

Felix’s eyes go flat and black. Smug. A little irritated.

Bingo.

“We have Price to take care of Carolina,” Locus tells Felix.

“We need someone who can knock that bitch out of the field, not play fucking mind chess with her,” says Felix. “Sharkface was going to tear her limb from limb.”

“That wouldn’t have worked,” says Wash.

“Big fucking words from you, throwing a man under the bus when he’s too dead to defend himself,” says Felix.

Which is an easy prompt for Wash to explain his logic. Wash can recognize Felix throwing him a bone, even when Felix can’t say so like a human being. “Sharkface was intending to use his fists and a flamethrower,” says Wash easily. “Close combat is her specialty. Mid-range would be taken care of by—” Wash fights to keep his voice level “—the Epsilon unit. Especially tech like a flamethrower.”

“How do you know about the Epsilon unit?” Felix demands.

“Sharkface and I used to sit and talk during lunch period,” says Wash. “Usually about how he was going to kill me. Sometimes about the word on the street.” Wash thinks about it. “Wasn’t a bad conversationalist.”

“If short- and mid-range is out, that leaves long-range,” says Locus.

Wash’s eyes flicker to the sniper rifle strapped to Locus’s back. “You can try,” says Wash. “You’d be hard-pressed to circumnavigate her speed unit and Epsilon’s surveillance.”

“Locus will get her,” says Felix dismissively.

The Locus helmet turns slightly. “We won’t underestimate the Reds and Blues again,” Locus says. “The Epsilon unit was precisely the element that ruined our cover at the radio towe—”

“Shut up about that, goddamn. You’re such a fucking _buzzkill_ , you know that? You can snipe a man through the throat from a mile off, Locus, you can take care of one woman. You’ve got a fucking active camo unit. Get Price on it if you’re so worried.”

“So Price can play chess with her?” Wash asks dryly.

Felix doesn’t react. Then, like a carefully crafted script, he permits himself to snicker. “I’ll give him one thing over Sharkface,” Felix tells Locus. “He’s got a sense of humor. Thank god, I thought I was going to be surrounded by robots my whole life. At least I’ve got this asshole—until we throw him out the airlock.”

Locus ignores this. “Price is convinced,” he says, “that Carolina’s tendency towards competition can be used to drive her team apart.”

“She’s made that mistake already,” says Wash. “She won’t do it again.”

“Her history of making that mistake was Price’s reasoning for predicting she’d do it again.”

“Because people never fucking change. Big surprise,” says Felix.

“Not Carolina,” says Wash.

No, not Carolina. Not their fearless leader, their resident show-off, the golden girl, the self-made pride and joy of Project Freelancer—until Tex, of course. No, not Carolina, not the woman who’d fought so hard to keep CT alive, who’d stayed behind to watch York’s fights, who’d lent armor and ammo and personal training sessions to anyone who’d needed help. Someone who hadn’t cared about their team, maybe, someone who hadn’t put their heart and soul into her teammates—but not Carolina. The Counselor was right, and Carolina had made mistakes. But that didn’t change that Carolina had loved them all.

“Mistakes of that kind, with a woman like Carolina,” Wash says, “—no, she won’t make it again.”

“Christ, you’re a cryptic, moody bastard, aren’t you,” says Felix, and snaps his fingers. “Get to the elevator pitch, Washy; you’re the one shooting down all our Carolina Containment plans. What are you offering?”

Wash smiles thinly.

“Make me a deal,” says Wash, eyes as flat and black as Felix’s own. “And I’ll show you.”

 

* * *

 

 

When they get planetside, Wash’s mission is the first they execute. Locus gets into position while Felix complains that Wash is wasting their time and money and already-insufficient resources, all of which Locus ignores and therefore Wash takes a blank check to do the same.

Carolina is currently located at a the Federal Base Outpost 27-B. She’s not hiding it. Everyone knows she’s there. Everyone also knows that Outpost 27-B runs close to one of the most strategic mountain ranges, well-fortified with a mountain pass that protects supply lines through several other outposts and Armonia. But even though they all know that one of the most important soldiers is stationed there at the moment, and that the outpost itself is so valuable, everyone _also_ knows that fucking with that outpost means fucking with Carolina, and nobody intends to do that.

Except Wash, because he’s an idiot.

In fact, Wash fucks with Carolina by walking up to the front door.

His Freelancer armor got sold by Hargrove as soon as he got put in jail, but Locus gave him some space pirate armor and some spray cans to paint it grey with the yellow stripe he’s known for. He walks up to the well-guarded front gate with his hands up in the air, no gun on his back, and watches the guards carefully to see if they’ll shoot.

They don’t. No other space pirate is stupid enough to walk up to the front of the base.

Wash flips on his megaphone. “My name is Washington,” he says. “I’d like to speak to Carolina.”

The group of four Feds look at each other. One of them turns away to speak into the helmet radio. Wash stands there, hands in the air, three Federal guns trained on his front and thirty space pirates hidden in the trees to his back. Fun sandwich.

When she comes out of the base, she does so cautiously, fully armored and equipped with two magnums. Wash can see a blue helmet peek over the edge of the base wall. Caboose, Wash remembers.

They stand there in the clearing just outside the front gate, staring at each other. Wash doesn’t dare lower his arms. Caboose’s helmet keeps peeking over the edge.

“So the rumors are true,” says Carolina. “Locus and Felix recruited prisoners. And of course Hargrove had to put you away in the dark.”

“Honestly, he should’ve just shot me,” says Wash, quite truthfully. Hargrove will someday regret letting Wash live.

“Oh, Wash,” Carolina says quietly. “I didn’t know. Oh, Wash. I would have come for you.”

Yeah, that’s kind of the last thing that Wash really wants to hear. He doesn’t need doubt eating away at his resolve. He changes the subject: “Looks like the rumors are true about you too, huh? You’ve adopted a shitty band of simtroopers. I’m glad. They’re… annoying, but they’re all right.”

Carolina, unofficial new Blue Team leader, looks across the dirty grass at Wash, with his shitty spray-painted pirate armor and life-with-no-parole sentence.

“Wash, why do I get the feeling that you’re not here to switch sides?” Carolina asks.

“Probably the fact that I keep shooting the shit instead of getting right to it,” says Wash. “Say, why don’t we keep going? You’re looking good. New work-out routine? Skin care?”

“You look like hell,” says Carolina.

“I’m wearing a helmet, Boss, how would you know?”

Carolina flinches. For a second, Wash is genuinely bewildered, because he’s never known Carolina to not be able to take a punch-back joke, before he realizes it’s because he called her “Boss.”

Now, passive-aggressive name-calling is a step meaner than Wash is interested in, especially when Wash genuinely hadn’t meant to go there. “I didn’t mean that sarcastically,” says Wash.

“I know,” says Carolina.

She sounds pained at the idea of Wash being honest and forthright instead of some cartoon supervillain. “I just keep makin’ it worse, don’t I,” Wash mutters under his breath.

“And I’m sorry,” Carolina says.

“Pretty sure if I hurt your feelings, _I’m_ the one who should apologize, Boss,” says Wash, and then internally kicks himself for having called her “Boss” again.

“Why’re you being so,” Carolina said, almost angrily, and stops.

Wash still says, without much remorse, “Well, it’s good to see you again. I missed you guys. I want you to know that.” It’s something she deserves to know if this goes bad.

Carolina says nothing for a moment. “I let you down,” she says, quietly. “Maine, York, the Dakotas, CT, and now you’re here…”

Wash’s HUD flashes a message:

> _LC: In position. Waiting for signal._
> 
> _WA: ETA 1 minute_
> 
> _LC: Don’t waste time._

Wash holds his hands out, as if to gesture to all of him. “My being here is not about you,” says Wash. “Boss, seriously. Not everything’s about you.”

“How couldn’t it be?!” Carolina demands, and takes two unconscious steps out into the no-man’s land. Wash knows that somewhere out there, Locus is adjusting his calculations. “It was Project Freelancer that went wrong, you suffered the consequences, you were on my team, my responsibility, it was my decisions that led to the—”

“It was a mistake,” says Wash. “There were a whole lifetime of decisions that happened afterwards, without you. I made some of those decisions. Other people made the rest of them.”

Carolina hesitates. “Then the Reds and Blues...” she begins.

Wash will be damned if Carolina starts thinking Wash blames the Reds and Blues for Wash’s arrest after the Reds and Blues took down the Meta. What could the Reds and Blues have been expected to do? Hide Wash from the authorities? Don’t be ridiculous. “You should stop looking for an answer,” Wash says. “I hear it’s bad for the skin. Look, Carolina—I’ll be level with you. I got sent to clear this base. Or capture it. Whichever. That’s the issue on the table right now. Forget the could-haves and the has-beens.”

“You were my responsibility,” says Carolina. “You _are_ …”

“Don’t do that to yourself,” Wash warns. “Forget about it. I’m here to take your base. This is your fair warning to either stand down, or accept the casualties.”

That snaps her out of it—Wash can see it in the way her spine straightens. “I won’t stand down,” says Carolina. “I can’t. Otherwise, what else have I come all this way for—what have I dealt with Freelancer for, become strong for, buried my team for, if not to protect other people?”

Wash feels a sudden wave of affection for her. There was a reason why Wash always followed Carolina, even when she didn’t have her head on straight: she’s got her heart in the right place in the end, and it’ll always lead her home.

“Wash?” Carolina asks. “What’s the point of having our strengths if not for doing good?”

Oh. Not a rhetorical question.

“Doing good is a privilege. Which suits you,” says Wash, quite honestly.

“Privilege suits me?” Carolina says, a little waspishly.

That, too, if Wash is going to be honest, if only because Carolina has always been athletically gifted and then honed those gifts with all the dedication she could muster; but Wash shakes his head. “Doing good for other people suits you,” he says. “It must be nice.”

New messages on the HUD:

> _FX: Hurry UP nobody wants to hear ur cryptic messages and sad life storys_
> 
> _LC: One minute is up. Waiting for signal._

Wash sighs. Yeah, this has gone on long enough. He gave it his best and said his bit and gave Carolina her shot. If he’s really lucky, he gave Carolina some peace of mind. Wash resolutely does not look at Caboose’s helmet, still peeking over the rampart.

“You can join us,” says Carolina. “You know that, right?”

Wash shakes his head again. The safety and stability of a home from which to do good from is not a privilege Wash has. It’s only cockroaches down here, crawling in the dirt. “Stand down, Carolina. I’m not joining you, and I’m not moving,” says Wash.

“And _I’m_ not moving,” says Carolina.

“For the last time, Boss,” says Wash. “You’ve got to believe me when I say you’ve got a good thing with the Reds and Blues going on. Stand down, or this isn’t going to be pretty.”

“Wash, do _not_ fight me,” Carolina protests, with horror.

Wash closes his eyes. Carolina’s been standing in one place, attention entirely on Wash, for almost two minutes now—more than enough time for a good sniper to gauge distance, wind, and trajectory. With the guilt and the impending fight, Carolina won’t have checked her surroundings in at least thirty seconds. He sighs. He still knows those little tells and flaws from all those years ago, and he really has missed her.

“Please,” says Carolina quietly. “I’d kill you.” And it would kill Carolina to have to kill Wash, too.

Wash says, “I know.”

And at Wash’s signal, Locus’s gunshot rips through Carolina’s throat.

 

* * *

 

 

Caboose is screaming. Someone drags both him and Carolina’s unconscious body away before Wash can get there, and Wash listens to radio reports of the space pirates losing visuals on them both as the surviving Feds make their escape. He’s glad. He has no idea what he was going to do if he found them, either.

 

 

* * *

 

“Locus is such a fucking show-off,” Felix mutters. “Getting her in the neck like that just because I made _one comment_ about _one thing_ he did _one time_.”

“I thought you wanted him to have more flair,” Wash says.

“Not when he’s one-upping me,” Felix complains. But not too loudly—not when there’s space pirates swarming the gutted hallways of Outpost 27-B and Felix is lounging in the control room, bouncing a bloody Federal helmet against the wall.

He turns and passes the helmet to Wash like a basketball. Wash catches it easily. “Okay,” says Felix. Wash can hear the wide, humorless grin in his voice, as he turns from playing with the helmet to gouging a knife into the wooden table. “Alright, Washy. Looks like you know how to deliver.”

“Did you think Sharkface wanted me dead because I was a doormat,” says Wash.

“Look, the dude’s name was Sharkface. I don’t know _what_ the fuck Fish-head wanted.”

Locus pokes his head through the door. “Outpost secure,” he says, in the flattest, most expressionless tone that still somehow expresses how peeved he is that Felix didn’t help. “Control wants a report.”

“Do it yourself if you’re so eager to kiss baldie’s ass,” says Felix, and turns right back to Wash: “You’ve got your deal. Higher cut and a ship when it’s over. Welcome aboard the team.”

“One thing,” says Wash.

Felix stills. “You better not be asking for more shit. We had a deal beforehand.”

“No, I wouldn’t do that. It’s an observation.” Wash throws the helmet back to Felix, who catches it one-handed, driving the knife deeper into the table with the other. “If Carolina ever recovers from her injury—and that’s a big if—I’ve got her more than covered. Physically, I know all her styles and quirks. Mentally—I’d say I know her better than Price ever could.”

Felix spins the helmet along the tabletop. He says, amused, “It sounds like you’re saying Price is expendable.”

“It’s an observation,” says Wash.

“I heard Price got you Section Twelve’d.”

Wash doesn’t stop his lips from turning upwards without a trace of emotion. “That, too.”

Felix bursts into genuine laughter this time, and slaps Wash on the back. “Fuck! Locus, Locus, I love this guy. Let’s keep him. You, my man—” Felix pats Wash on the chest. Wash hates it a little bit, but doesn’t flinch. “I’ve got you. That guy always gave me the creeps anyway, always talking about how he was going to remake Sharkface from the inside out, all that mental manipulation mumbo-jumbo—what a fucking toolbag. You, on the other hand--I’ve got a good feeling about you. You’re a _survivor_.”

He says it like it's the highest compliment Felix is capable of paying. _Says a lot about him_ , Wash thinks, and quietly lowers Felix down several points of estimation. Survivors are scavengers, bugs, bottom feeders. It's nothing to be proud of.

Felix turns on his helmet radio, makes a beeline for the doorway, and starts barking orders: “Rhodes! Get me Price. Yeah, that therapist douchebag—we’re gonna have a little fun.”

“Be efficient,” Locus snaps after him. Felix waves him away, visibly not listening. And then Locus turns to Wash, and says, “Petty grudges are beneath you, Agent Washington.”

“Nothing’s below me,” says Wash lightly. “I’m pretty sure I’m a maggot living in the mud, at this point.” (He can hear the hiss of Carolina’s ruptured windpipe.)

“You did well on this mission,” Locus insists, which is the point that Wash realizes that this is actually going to be a conversation, because Wash hasn’t heard Locus string even these many words together in Felix’s presence before. “Your work was effective, direct, and with integrity. Your background as a soldier is clear.”

Wash shakes his head. “Don’t say shit like that. I’m no soldier. I’m not even a Freelancer.”

“A professional, at the very least,” says Locus.

Wash almost laughs. “A professional murderer, maybe.”

“It’s not _murder_ —” Locus snaps, just as Felix walks back into the room.

“—I don’t care what he thinks,” Felix says loudly into the radio, holds up a finger, and says, “No, shut it, Rhodes, give me a second—Wash! You up for another deal?”

“Hit me,” says Wash, without hesitation, like the professional murderer he is.

“A little birdie told me you hung around the Reds and Blues,” Felix sings. “Think you could pull a fast one on them like you did with Carolina? I’m thinking... negotiating your criminal history. See if we can get that scrubbed altogether, know what I mean?”

Wash yanks Felix’s knife from the tabletop. Slides it into his own sheath. For a clean scrub of his criminal history? He _absolutely_ remembers the Reds and Blues.

“I’ll need current intel on them. I’ll see what I can do,” says Wash.


End file.
